It was getting dark outside the cabin — that kind of blue-grey dusk that made everything feel quieter than it should.
The group had spread out, preparing, searching, arguing.
Mike had been looking for Will for the last ten minutes.
Not frantically. Not loudly.
Just with that same tightness in his chest he always got when Will slipped out of sight.
He finally found him outside near the treeline, half-turned away, arms crossed, eyes somewhere far off.
Mike stopped a few feet behind him, swallowing.
“I’m not. I just needed some air.”
Mike stepped closer, voice tight. “No. Something’s… different. You keep pulling away.”
Will let out a tired sigh, the kind that sounded too old for him.
Mike’s face twisted — hurt, confused, something raw leaking through the cracks.
“That’s not what it feels like.”
Will finally turned toward him. And the look on his face—
pained, gentle, resigned—
hit Mike harder than anything Vecna could ever do.
Mike shook his head, stepping closer without meaning to.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said quietly. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply the truth — shaped like a wound.
Will’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “You’re not losing me.”
He took another step — close enough that Will could hear his uneven breathing.
For a long moment, Mike just stared at him.
Stared like Will was the only thing holding him upright.
The name came out small. Bare.
Mike’s eyes dipped to Will’s mouth, then snapped back up, guilty, lost.
“Why does it feel like you’re the only person on earth?”
Will’s breath stuttered — barely noticeable, but Mike saw it anyway.
A flicker of pain crossed Will’s face, because he knew that feeling too well. Too deeply. Too quietly.
Mike caught that look like a punch.
He stepped even closer, as if pulled by gravity alone.
His hands dropped by his sides in surrender.
He wasn’t fighting it anymore.
He reached out first, slow, hesitant —
Their fingers pressed together.
Mike inhaled sharply — a small, involuntary gasp — staring down at their hands like he couldn’t believe he’d actually done it.
His thumb trembled against Will’s knuckles.
Will didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Like one wrong twitch might shatter Mike into dust.
Then — slowly — Will lifted his free hand.
He brushed the hair gently out of Mike’s eyes, fingertips grazing his forehead.
Mike closed his eyes at the touch — barely, but enough.
Will’s hand slid to the back of Mike’s neck, warm and steady, holding him there like he was something precious, fragile even.
Mike let out a breath he’d been holding for years.
Neither of them looked away.
Mike’s voice came out barely there, almost a whisper pressed between them:
Will blinked, slow, pained, honest.
“Mike…” His voice shook. “Please don’t ask me that.”
“Because you already know the answer.”
Mike’s chest tightened, a sharp inhale cutting through him.
His eyes flicked to Will’s mouth again — not by accident this time, but like some part of him was done pretending.
He leaned in the faintest inch — enough for their foreheads to touch.
“Will…” His voice cracked in the middle of the word. “I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”
Will shuddered, eyes closing like those words physically hit him.
“You don’t have to,” he whispered.
At this Mike let his forehead drop to Wills, breaths tangling together.
Mike’s forehead rested fully against his now, breath mixing with breath.
“I’m done running,” Mike whispered, voice raw.
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